A Time for Patriots (41 page)

Patrick chuckled, then waved a hand. “I'm just babbling,” he said, taking another sip of whiskey. “It's all moot anyway. The air base is closing down soon; they'll probably close down the airfield because the county can't afford the upkeep, and I've been asked to go back to Washington.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“I can't talk about it yet,” Patrick said. “It's not even a paid position. But we wanted to keep Brad in school in Battle Mountain to finish with his senior class. Once Brad is off to college, Gia and I will go to Washington.”

“You and Gia,” Nancy said. “Is there a ‘you and Gia,' Patrick?”

He shrugged. “I hope so,” he said. “Gia's working through some tough personal problems. By the time we get ready for the move, we should know.” He set his drink down and leaned forward, looking directly at both his sisters. “But I really love her, guys,” he said. “She strong, she's smart, and—”

“Great in the sack, right?” Margaret interjected.

“I was going to say ‘caring,' Mugs,” Patrick said. His subcutaneous transceiver beeped, and his intraocular monitor told him it was Brad. He picked up his drink and smiled slyly. “But yeah, she is,” then held up a finger to tell his sisters he was going to take a call. “Hey, big guy.”

“Are you watching TV, Dad?”

“No. I'm down here with—”

“The ex-president—Joseph Gardner—is on TV—and he's talking about your surveillance operation at Battle Mountain!”

“
What?
You're
kidding
!”

“He just mentioned
you,
Dad!” Brad exclaimed. “Hold on . . . now he's saying you were ordered by President Phoenix to spy on people around Battle Mountain so he could circumvent the law. That's nutso!”

“President Phoenix has nothing to do with what we're doing, Brad,” Patrick said.

“Wait . . .” He could hear Brad take a sharp increase of air; then: “Dad,
he just mentioned those FBI agents
! He said you chased them out of Battle Mountain by threatening their lives!”

“Oh God,” Patrick moaned. “It's begun . . .” His transceiver beeped again, and his intraocular monitor simply said “private.” “I have to go, Brad. Talk to you in a few minutes.” He took the second call. “McLanahan.”

“Gardner couldn't even wait for the morning shows before dropping the next firebomb,” Vice President Ann Page said. “I've got a call in to the Justice Department, and they'll tell us what's going to happen next. Based on what they've already said, you'll have to shut down your operation, and anyone who was flying those surveillance missions might get in trouble with the FAA. The FBI might confiscate your equipment to see if what you were looking at violated the law. The president will take some major political flak for this.” She paused. “And you'll probably be indicted by a grand jury and asked to turn yourself in.”

“Fine with me—I'll be happy to get in front of a judge and tell what happened,” Patrick said. “I'm sorry the president will take some heat, but it's not his fault at all.” That sentence got Nancy and Margaret's attention, and they stopped chatting with each other to listen.

“How did this get out, Patrick?” Ann asked.

“I've obviously got someone in my group who talked to the press or the FBI,” Patrick said.

“Where are you now?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“Get back to Battle Mountain right away,” Ann said. “We don't want it to look like you're trying to flee.”

“I'm with my sisters,” Patrick said irritably. “We're visiting our mother. Why would anybody think I'm trying to flee?” Nancy and Margaret's eyes widened in surprise when they heard that.

“How soon can you get back?”

“I can't fly tonight,” Patrick said.

“Why not?”

“I've had a drink,” he said. “I can't fly after taking a drink.”

“
Now
you're worried about breaking the law?” the vice president retorted.

“It's not just the law, Madam Vice President, it's safety of flight.”

“Madam Vice President?”
Margaret exclaimed in a whisper. “You're talking to
the vice president of the United States
. . . ?”

Patrick put a finger to his lips to shush his sisters. “Tomorrow I need to drop my sisters off in Sacramento, then—”

“Put them on a plane in the morning and come directly back to Battle Mountain first thing,” the vice president said. “We've got to get out in front of this. Are you reading me, General?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Patrick said. The connection was terminated.

“Were you just talking to the
vice
—”

Patrick held up a hand. “Not so loud, guys,” he said. “I've got to go back to Battle Mountain first thing in the morning. I'll put you guys on a flight back to Sacramento.”

“What's going on, Patrick?” Nancy asked in a whisper. “Why did the vice president think you were trying to flee?”

“She didn't, but other people might think I was.” He stood up and kissed both his sisters on the top of their heads. “I'm sure you'll hear all about it on the news tomorrow morning.”

Joint Air Base Battle Mountain

The next morning

T
hey saw it the next morning from about thirty miles out: several columns of thick black smoke issuing from the base. Patrick was advised to stay away from the smoke but was still cleared to land.

“It's the housing area, Dad!” Brad said as they entered the traffic pattern. He looked carefully, and then his mouth dropped open. “I can't see our trailer through the smoke, Dad. Wow, it looks like dozens of trailers caught on fire!”

Patrick made the landing, taxied to his hangar, put the P210 Centurion away, then drove over to the Civil Air Patrol hangar. Several members of CAP were inside. “Hope you had a nice vacation, Patrick,” Rob Spara said. “You heard the news?”

“About our surveillance operation? Yes,” Patrick replied. “What about the fires?”

“They're saying it was rival survivalist or fundamentalist groups—whatever they are,” David Bellville said. “No one really knows. It broke out early this morning. All of the civilians are being put up in shelters at the high school until they can be relocated.” He put a hand on Patrick's shoulder. “I think your trailer was one of them, General.”

“I had a feeling it might be,” Patrick said. “That's how my luck has been running lately. Has anyone heard from the Justice Department or the FBI?” Everyone shook their heads. “I spoke with the vice president last night. She thinks everything is going to be shut down and the equipment confiscated by the FBI. I'd like to get copies of all the latest sensor scans, as many as we can save.”

“Why don't we just erase everything?”

“We don't want to be accused of destroying evidence,” Patrick said. “Besides, I think the images will prove that we're not violating anyone's privacy. And there's nothing illegal about making backups.”

“I'll take care of it,” David Bellville said, and hurried off.

“Should we get Dr. Masters to pull those sensors off the planes?” John de Carteret asked.

“Let's not panic,” Patrick said. “The more stuff we do that looks like a cover-up, the worse it will go for us. The cover-up is always worse than the crime. I'd be more than happy to stand in front of a judge and jury and explain what we were doing.”

Patrick put in a call to Jon Masters: “Where are you guys?” he asked over the secure voice connection.

“Ahhh . . . I think it might be better if you didn't know, Patrick,” Jon said.

“Gotcha,” Patrick said. “Probably so, since I'm sure I'll be questioned by the FBI soon. I'm surprised they're not here already. What's going on?”

“We were told early yesterday evening to gather our stuff and depart,” Jon said. “Not the downlinks or surveillance equipment, but . . . you know, the
other
stuff.”

“Gotcha. Who told you to take off?”

“Ahhh . . .”

“Gotcha. Talk to you soon.”

Patrick, Gia, and Brad drove over to the housing area. Sure enough, their trailer was one of dozens caught in the blaze. They were prevented from going near it by base firefighters. “How did it start?” Patrick asked the deputy fire chief at the checkpoint.

“Too early to tell, General,” the chief said. “The police were summoned out here last night because of some arguments between two or three groups, but everything broke up shortly after the police showed up. A few hours later, we got the call. It looks like the origin was very close to your trailer, sir.”

“
My
trailer?”

“Good thing you weren't home—whatever was used as the primary, it was hot and powerful—more powerful than dynamite, maybe PETN or RDX,” the fire chief said. “We'll start the investigation shortly, along with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations and the FBI. Sorry, sir. We'll let you know what happens.”

They drove back to Patrick's office in silence. Patrick brought Gia and Brad something to drink and fixed himself coffee. “Everybody all right?” he said once they were settled.

“I'm cool,” Brad said. “It's funny—all I have was the overnight stuff we brought on the trip, but I'm not bummed. I can't think of anything important I lost except maybe my laptop. I guess it's because I didn't have that much to begin with.”

“Gia?” She had been completely silent since landing at Battle Mountain, and now she was staring blankly at some spot on Patrick's desk. “You haven't said much, sweetie.” Patrick reached out and touched her arm. “Are you—”

“Don't touch me!”
she cried out, jumping out of her seat so quickly that her drink and Patrick's coffee went flying. Gia wrapped her arms around her waist and began to sob. “I could have been
killed
last night if we were at that trailer!” She looked at Patrick and Brad in amazement. “You two are acting as if nothing's happened! First you say that we have to go back right away because you might have to talk with the FBI, and then your trailer is blown up—and neither of you seems to think it's anything out of the ordinary! What is
wrong
with you two?” And she stormed out, pushing the door open so hard that it rebounded off the wall.

“Gia! Wait!” Patrick shouted. He started for the door . . .

. . . and ran headlong into none other than Special Agent Philip Chastain, accompanied by another man he didn't recognize. “Just the man I want to see,” Chastain said, showing his badge. “Going somewhere, General?”

“My girlfriend—”

“I think she wants to be alone right now,” Chastain said. “I'm going to need a few things from you.”

“I'm not answering any questions without my—”

“Oh, that broken record again,” Chastain said. Patrick noticed that the agent was wearing a different kind of shirt, one with a much higher collar—obviously to hide the bruises on his neck caused by being manhandled by the Tin Man. “I wasn't going to ask any questions. I just need some things.” Patrick glanced over Chastain's shoulder and saw David Bellville walking quickly away from the conference room. He gave Patrick a wink.

Chastain held up a document. “Warrant to seize computers, other electronic communications equipment, hard drives, and other documents stored here and in your aircraft hangar. Mind handing over the keys? I'd hate to punch the locks on your pretty little plane.” Patrick nodded to Brad, who produced the hangar and aircraft keys. “Thank you, son. I have a warrant to search your trailer too, but I guess that'll have to wait until the fire inspector and OSI are done. Any other locked safes I need keys for?”

“No.”

“Fine. Now, you're not under arrest, General—yet—but I'm telling you not to go anywhere unless you notify me first. It might not look so good for you at the grand jury if we find you've disappeared.” He held up another document. “I have a warrant to search Jonathan Masters's aircraft and seize certain pieces of equipment, including the robot and the armor you terrorized myself and my agents with. The plane is not in its hangar. Where is it?”

“I want to speak with a lawyer before I answer any questions.”

“You're not under arrest, General,” Chastain said. He looked at Patrick carefully, studying every movement on his face. “Where did Masters go?” No answer. “When did he leave?” Still no reply. “I'll just check the control tower's records. But it's another example of how uncooperative you are. I'm sure the grand jury will want to hear that also. I still have my suspicions about you, General. You're not the Sir Lancelot in shining armor the rest of the world thinks you are.”

He stepped closer to Patrick so they were almost nose to nose. “Do you know, Agent Brady will never be able to raise his left arm above his shoulder again, thanks to you and your buddy? He'll be driving a desk from now on, maybe get himself a medical retirement if they can't get the pain under control. And you know what else, you bastard? You know that pill you made me swallow? I'm told whenever it's interrogated and transmits a signal, it could cause cancer. I've got a wife and two young kids, you son of a bitch. Maybe you should have killed me, McLanahan . . . because I'm about to make your life a living hell.” And he turned and stormed out of the office.

“What are we going to do now, Dad?” Brad asked. “Where are we going to go?”

Patrick spent several long minutes feeling a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion, then turned back to his son. “First, I want to look for Gia,” he said. “She was pretty upset, and I didn't notice it. Next, we should get some lunch. After that, we should go to the store so we can pick up some supplies. If we find Gia, we'll go to transient billeting for the night; if we don't, I think we'll just camp out here in the office on cots, okay?”